


The Boy and His Wolf

by elderbwrry



Series: Huxloween [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval Setting, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Huxloween, Huxloween 2020, If You Squint - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Violence, Revenge, Werewolf Kylo Ren, at the end, fairytale (kind of), in the past, teensy bit of arson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26835415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elderbwrry/pseuds/elderbwrry
Summary: Huxloween day five.The word is on the tip of the boy's tongue. Demon, monster, “werewolf.”Be careful what you find in the woods at night under a full moon. Sometimes, the things that live there come with dreadful purpose. Sometimes, they will strip away your reservations and make you burn.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren
Series: Huxloween [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957468
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35
Collections: Huxloween 2020





	The Boy and His Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Although Hux is referred to as a “boy” in the majority of the fic, he is 19 and it's more of a coming of age/finding of purpose word than an actual reference to age. Kylo is kind of ancient/ageless. There's a little bit of violence at the end with some descriptions of blood. Throughout, there's non-graphic reference to abusive parenting. Do tell me if I've missed anything.
> 
> Also, I should mention that the setting is non-specific medieval.

The boy stands cold and alone, outside the thin wooden door of the house. The first breaths of winter are coming in, rolling over the browning leaves of the forest on the edge of which their little village sits, promising snow in the season ahead. It is dark, all except for the thin, yellow light leaking out from the door cracks, a single line like the sweep of a knife, and the little cloud of light cast by the lantern he allows to hang from his fingers.

“Get out, boy!” his father had shouted in a rage so thunderous that the sonorous tree trunks outside are still ringing with it, but the boy slammed the door as if it were his own choice to leave. He finally decided that he would, if he could, take back control with violence and noise; that is all his father has ever known.

There is a road to his left, and a road before him. Where to go?

The boy soon resolves the village is not the place. The paving stones of the church will offer no respite, dead as they are, and so many people back there look down on him as nothing more than the motherless slip of a thing who cannot till the fields for fear of fatigue. They are nothing, there, but the men who clap his father on the back as he heads to the tavern. He will not go left.

Tightening his thin cloak around himself, the boy sets his first feet forward, into the forest.

The trees are thin above the path, and the light of the full moon guides his way, like a dappled, silvery worm, or a vein of something precious set into the ground. He should be afraid, he thinks with his unnaturally active mind, but the light from above is so gentle, and the light from the lantern surrounds him like a shield, and the further he goes, the more he finds that he doesn't care, he doesn't _care_ , because the bite of the air and the hardness of the well-trodden earth are kinder to him than what he has just left. Didn't his father always tell him to have mastery over his emotions?

This is a path he knows well. If he walks for two miles, he will come to a crossroads. Were he to continue, he would carry on to the city. Right takes the route up to the ridge, and left to the neighbouring village. He has friends there, and it is where he should go, but something is calling to him tonight, whether it be the moon pointing the way forward, or the path and its worn shape, or even the very darkness itself, something is calling him to go on, to the way he thinks is the city.

He has nothing with him but a few coins, his lantern and his little blade, and he has nothing waiting for him, but there is nothing for it; his father will give him nothing that he wants, or ever has. No – he will find his place in the city, he hopes.

The walk drags on, but the boy is so determined, he does not notice when he begins to lose his way. The crossroads will come eventually, he reasons, but you and I know of magic which boys like him have long discarded; we know that a dark forest is beholden to no-one but itself, we know that a moon winks and plays tricks on those who err to trust it, we know that the beasts made from the very force of the world have not yet died out.

So, the boy does not notice when he loses his way.

Insolently, with a flutter as of tiny wings, the moon winks and disappears behind the ear shaped leaves of the canopy. The path lifts off from the earth and wraps itself around like the roots of the trees beneath it, bearing the boy deeper into the dark. There are things, then, in the dark, little sharp black things, like dog hairs one can never fully pick off one's cloak. Subtly, these things begin to move.

There is a rustle.

The boy frowns, lifts his lamp, squints. He turns, looks. Nothing. His free hand finds his belt, the cord of his money pouch so close to the sheath of his blade. Cold hands meet the cold hilt – metal and leather and studs – and he draws the dagger with a little _snick_.

“Put your weapon away.”

The boy whips around, cloak and lantern and hair and weapon whirling, each reaching in its own way for the source of the command, for the figure which now occupies the road before them. There, padding over lush carpets of fallen leaves, with eyes as red as yew berries, a great, black wolf.

In spite of himself, the boy lets out a small, fearful sound, a gasp which invisible hands closed themselves around and squeezed into a whimper. He stumbles back, one, two steps, raising his blade as if it will do anything against the massive beast – nothing will stop him from fighting if he must, no, the boy has more spirit than that – inching away to give himself more time to react.

But the wolf is wrong; no animal is so black, like it has been forged with the pitch and soot of a thousand fires burning around it; no animal on earth has such wickedly coloured eyes, eyes which glow like embers; no animal can keep teeth so white and perfect in such a number as the thing now taking up the path before him.

“Put your weapon away,” the voice says again, dripping from the wolf's jaws like saliva, “I don't want to hurt you.”

“Who is that?” the boy hisses, glancing around. His mind is strong, like rich oak, you see, and while it is good at what it does, it is rigid and will not yet so easily bend to believe that the voice is coming from the wolf.

The wolf steps towards him.

The boy steps away.

“Perhaps,” the wolf says, and before the boy's eyes, the thing begins to shift, its fur sloughing away from its legs, its back straightening like a man's, it's legs thickening and becoming unbent, its nose sinking into its face, its ears melting into its head and reforming, its hair extending out into locks.

The boy cannot piece all of this together until it has already happened, until he realises what, exactly, stands before him. Where before crouched the wolf, now stands a male of his own age, everything changed to human likeness, skin as white as snow wrapped in a black cloak, everything different except the eyes.

“Perhaps this form is better,” the wolf says, “unless you would like to resume our little dance?”

“You're a...” The word is on the tip of the boy's tongue. _Demon, monster,_ “werewolf.”

The wolf nods, his long, black hair slipping over his eyes. It looks soft, not at all like the fur of the dogs back home, which was wiry and tough. Now, the boy wonders if the wolf's hair had looked just as soft, too wary was he to notice such a thing before.

“You are a long way into the forest, red,” the wolf says, calling him by the shade of his hair. Evidently, that is all the understanding have between them.

“The road...” the boy says, glancing back. “I was heading to the city.”

The wolf steps closer. “And instead it led you here.”

The boy swallows.

“Why are you out so late, red? Why are you being led to me?”

“I'm not being _led_ to you,” the boy snaps, leaning into the word. He won't have such a thing implied about him any more, not when he has only just broken away from the controlling force of his old home. “And don't call me that.”

The wolf raises his hands. “What should I call you, then?”

“Why should I tell you?”

The wolf nods. “My own name is Kylo,” he says, putting a hand to his chest and inclining his head as if to mimic reasoning – though the patience does not quite reach his tone. “I'm sorry, I was just curious what a boy like yourself was doing out so late.”

“I'm not a boy,” the boy scoffs, still pointing his blade, “I'm sure I'm older than you. Nineteen summers.”

The wolf pauses, cocks his head. Age is a different concept for beings such as him, who are so closely bound to the ancient life force of the world, but he knows surely that “I was not a man until I burned the houses of those who wished to control me. Have you done that?”

The boy swallows.

“Boy,” the wolf repeats.

The boy is silent for a minute. “You burned them?” he asks, when finally he thinks he can, his raised blade faltering.

The wolf frowns, eyes drawn by some invisible flash of the metal. “I did. I'll tell you, if you'll sit with me a while.”

“You'll kill me,” the boy replies.

“Would that be so much worse than the city?” The wolf asks. “I've been there, and it's more soulless than it seems.”

The boy thinks about this. He supposes that it might not be worse.

Having put away his blade, the boy walks side by side with the wolf as he is led deeper into the forest, to a den, where can be found twigs woven artfully to cover the ground and placed beneath a small outcrop of rock and tree roots. They sit, and the wolf tells the boy of his childhood, of the people from the city who wronged him and sent him away for fear of his nature, how he dreamed of a different way, how he took his freedom in a blaze of force.

They sit knee to knee, facing each other with only the lantern to light their faces. The boy sees the hurt in the wolf's eyes, and sees how what was broken there has healed over in a haze of red, like when the blood moon is low on the horizon. The wolf looks so gentle, by this light, and when finally he gives him a small, sad smile, the boy's breath is taken away.

“Will you tell me now what your name is?” the wolf asks.

“Armitage,” the boy says, his lips taking the word from him before he recognises he should have held it tighter.

The wolf cocks his head. “A name from the word hermitage,” he notes, “did you know that?”

“I...” the boy does not like to show any such weakness of knowledge. He is clever, and after being beaten so many times for uttering the words, 'I don't know', he is reluctant to ever utter them again.

But the wolf takes a hand in two of his own, and swipes a thumb over it. His hands are so large and callused, but he treats the boy's skin so carefully that the boy almost can't look up – when he does, he finds that the wolf only has eyes for him. “You were named to be alone,” he says, “but I don't believe you should be. Something as beautiful as you was made to be adored.”

The boy swallows, shies away from the praise, though it fills his chest pleasantly. “I don't know if anyone can say they were 'made' for anything.”

The wolf narrows his eyes. “I believe in fate. Purpose, if that word suits you better. I think you have a purpose. I can feel it on you.”

“Purpose...” The wolf's tales of fire and destruction and the taking of freedom from those who caused him harm are still fresh in the boy's mind. “You think revenge is a purpose?”

The wolf merely nods.

It is dark in the woods, all except for the boy's little lantern. The shadows are shifting, and the boy can't figure out if it is a stirring of air flittering at the flame, or if the wolf is leaning closer and closer. The night is frozen cold – trees are like stone and stone is like ice, all with the trickster moon peeking down on them through sibilant leaves – but the dark is warm. The boy finds himself falling, tilting into it, embracing it, the warm, soft dark, like a great blanket that hushes the sounds and wraps the two of them up in each other.

The wolf's breath is skimming the boy's cheek when he asks, “Is that why you've come for me?” For he has seen what the wolf wants, has seen the pieces that have been placed together before him in a path that leads to home. “Am I to burn my village to the ground? Am I to kill my father and his friends with you at my side, as though I've brought you an opportunity to maim and kill?”

“Why?” the wolf whispers, and his eyes unstick from the boy's and sink to his mouth. “Do you want to?”

There is but a breath between them as the boy frowns, whispers “Yes,” and clings to the dark.

The wolf's kiss is all-consuming, and the boy melts like wax. The wolf's teeth are sharp and his movements are intent and precise, and the boy feels like he is being pared to the bone, everything unnecessary stripped away. The dark is so warm and inviting, like the wolf's great cloak, and the cloud of it which surrounds them and lays them down is rich like a thousand of the finest furs of the wealthiest lords in all the land.

And when the wolf breaks away and looks down at him, the boy doesn't feel like he's falling away somewhere that his favour is temporary and mercurial, somewhere it might be replaced with scorn; no, instead he feels held firmly, lifted by the ground back up into the wolf's arms.

“Sleep here, with me, tonight,” the wolf says, and his dark hair, satiny with curls, is hanging down and brushing the boy's cheeks. “In the morning, we'll return to your village and take what is yours.” There is something reverent and intoxicating in his tone, something noble which lashes itself to the boy and hands him the reins. “Share my cloak. I'll keep you warm.”

“You'll kill me,” the boy protests, but it's flat and knowing; the wolf is his and they will do each other no harm.

“Never,” the wolf replies, a flashing of teeth white even in the gloom. “I am a man, I can live off the fruits of the land. I am a wolf, I can live off the beasts in the forest or the herds in the fields. What cause have I to harm something as precious as you?”

“You speak as if you know me better than you do,” the boy tells him. He doesn't really believe that he can be this thing the wolf sees in him.

“I know what I need to,” the wolf confesses. “The moon told me you would come. The forest led you to me. They and I are old friends.”

That night, they curl up on a bed of twigs and leaves and fur. The dark is warm, and the moon smiles down. The boy thinks he might come to trust the wolf, but most of all, he wishes to chase the wolf's promise of purpose, even if it is dreadful. When he dreams his old dreams, he no longer fears the wolf at his heels.

It is strange; Armitage had expected it to sound different, louder.

Or maybe he didn't.

The church is on fire along with the tavern – yes, Armitage wanted _fire_ for those two so-called houses of worship – while Kylo tears through the few men who have taken up arms in vain against his unstoppable force. Wooden beams crack as they are touched by new flames, providing an almost hollow sound to the scrubby bit of field the tiny village calls a central square. The only other thing that reaches his ears are shouts, screams and growls from just out of sight, behind buildings.

“You'll kill them?” Armitage had asked when they arrived.

“Most surely,” Kylo replied.

“Leave the children and their mothers,” was all Armitage had to say as Kylo turned and begun his rampage.

Now, Armitage takes a moment to admire the place; the flames are an improvement, a beautiful splash of colour against the overcast sky. He wasn't sure what he thought of the blood, or the bodies strewn around. He struck some of them down himself – Enric, his father's old friend, deserved nothing less than a personal response after the torment he delighted in bringing Armitage when he was younger – but he is more than content to let Kylo rage, since he is so good at it.

They started with his father's house by the forest; his dagger is becoming sticky with the blood, now, and the thatched roof burned so well once they got it going...

They then continued into the village. These people saw what was happening to Armitage, and they did nothing. They deserve what they get.

Finally, the screams stop, but Armitage stays still to appreciate the scene a little more. The wolf emerges from behind a building, larger than a normal wolf and twice as black in the light of day. He begins to morph into a man as he approaches Armitage.

“It is done,” Kylo says, grinning, fully human again and still walking towards him. He is naked, this time, his cloak wrapped instead around Armitage's shoulders. He's exquisite, built with muscular lines and strength down to his very bone structure. There is some dark red splattered over his pale skin on his side, on his hands and feet, around his mouth.

Armitage draws him close, retrieves a cloth from his pocket and wipes away the blood from Kylo's lips. He smiles and leans up, joining their mouths in a hard, hungry, victory-fuelled kiss. Kylo was right, he thinks, this is his purpose; fire and blood and supremacy.

The village burns around them, and still they kiss, the man and his wolf.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this, my second Huxloween 2020 offering. I'm on tumblr [@elderbwrry](https://elderbwrry.tumblr.com/).


End file.
